


Ash & Tinder

by Enchantable



Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [2]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: “Does your God speak to you?” She asks, “do you feel him there?” It takes him a moment to shake his head, “so why do you pray?”“Faith.”“Faith,” she repeats and looks at his hands, “maybe he is speaking to you and you need to learn how to listen.”Interlude 1
Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917388
Kudos: 1





	Ash & Tinder

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413787) by [Enchantable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable). 



It takes several days for Arthur’s fever to break.

Pym rides in the cart alongside him, pouring over the book as Arthur sweats and shivers. His eyes dart beneath his shut lids. She does her best to make the teas the books recommend but sometimes they are too strong. She finds that men react quicker than Fey but adjusts accordingly. She spends her day’s reading and putting cold cloths on his forehead to try and bring his temperature down. At night she forces herself to eat and then returns to the cart. Most nights, she sleeps there and wakes with a choked sound, covered in a blanket she doesn’t remember pulling up.

His fever breaks eventually and he looks up at her blearily.

“I hoped it was a dream.”

“No,” she says regretfully, changing the cloth on his forehead. Arthur struggles to keep his eyes open and she smiles as best she can, “rest,” Pym urges.

Arthur slips under again, but his fever doesn’t return.

* * *

“Breathe out,” Kaze orders, “and imagine it vanishing as you do.”

Lancelot inhales deeply and holds the breath in his lungs. Kaze regards him from behind strips of fabric she’s tied around her eyes. The Fire should blind her but she gives him an unimpressed look when he says as much. Apparently the reflection of the sun is nothing she hasn’t dealt with. He exhales sharply and nothing happens. So he takes another breath and tries again. Kaze makes a disgusted sound.

“Get rid of it your way before it burns us all.”

Lancelot says a quick prayer as silently as he can, the flames wink out.

“It was a good idea,” he says.

“It didn’t work,” she corrects, “does your God speak to you?” She asks, “do you feel him there?” It takes him a moment to shake his head, “so why do you pray?”

“Faith.”

“Faith,” she repeats and looks at his hands, “maybe he is speaking to you and you need to learn how to listen.”

**

“Arthur’s alright,” she says, approaching the tent. Squirrel and Lancelot both turn to her and Pym feels her face grow hot. This spur of the moment idea was a bad one, she sees that now, but they’re both looking at her, “it’s not comfortable sleeping in the cart. I thought—“

“Of course you can sleep here,” Squirrel says. Lancelot nods, “He snores though so you might need some cotton for your ear—ow!” He squats at Lancelot’s cuff, “You do!”

“Go inside and clear her a place.”

“Shouldn’t you do that, Squire?”

Lancelot gives him a look and Squirrel huffs off into the tent. Pym knows she’s been avoiding him. Avoiding both of them. Focusing on Arthur was necessary but she feels terribly foolish about it none the less. They’ve both spoken in passing and acknowledged each other, but she knows she’s pulled back. It hasn’t been long but it’s not unnoticed. She picks at the edge of her bedroll as Lancelot comes closer but stops well away from as close as he had been coming.

“Thank you for bringing this, and the food,” she says.

He nods.

“I needed to focus on Arthur.”

“You don’t need to explain,” he says and Pym wonders how his voice is less hoarse than before.

“I haven’t been crying in the cart over it,” she says abruptly, “I don’t feel anything really,” she wonders how this has turned so elegantly, “I think I’m supposed to.”

“You will,” he says.

“That’s what scares me,” she admits.

“I cleared a space,” Squirrel says, “welcome back.”

Pym fights the urge to correct him.

* * *

He’s accustom to Squirrel snoring on one side.

It takes a bit to get reacquainted with the rhythm of Pym’s breathing. She hasn’t been gone long enough for her scent to fade, but there is a difference between a scent trail and the one who originates it. It’s distracting him, in a way that it hasn’t been since they first started traveling together. Or perhaps it’s just how her scent has changed. One night it changes sharply and he hears her stir, swear and move out of the tent as quietly as she can.

He waits a moment and follows.

“I’m fine, Lancelot,” she says. He opens his mouth to refute the statement and she sighs deeply, turning around so quickly they nearly topple into each other, “go back.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Pym sighs again and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She looks embarrassed and frustrated. Lancelot understands that she needs her space in her grief and has walked the line between helpful and giving that to her as best he can. She hasn’t been a danger to herself. She hasn’t been bleeding. Pym drops her hands and turns, continuing on into the woods. She doesn’t tell him to go so he follows, looking out for any of their enemies.

“We’ve know each other a month,” she says as they come up to a stream. He looks at her blankly still, “women bleed every month,” she says.

“What?”

“You must have some—“ she stops, “women bleed every month,” she says, “it’s how you know your body can carry a child. There’s no injuries, it just happens. Once you have a child, it stops and then it returns,” she heads to the water, “it’s going to change everyone’s scent.”

Lancelot listens to what she’s saying and steadies his heart. It’s not a problem, which is a good thing. But it is something he has no frame of reference for. He’s been around men of the Cloth for most of his life. The Guard allows women, the Paladins don’t. He hasn’t known any woman long enough to notice the change in scent. Not like this. There’s a handful of Fey women traveling with them. Including Tristain. Pym cleans herself up and when she comes back, he forces himself not to focus on the difference and keep the look off his face.

“I was concerned—“

“It’s alright,” she says, “I didn’t realize it would come up,” she shakes her head, “that was a mistake on my part.”

“Other things have been happening.”

She gives him a look and he shrugs. They have been. She sighs and looks back at the water, the emotion falling off her face. It’s the first time they’ve been near anything resembling a lake. He watches her hands curl around themselves and grasps her wrist. She jumps at the contact but her eyes focus on him instead of the water. He lifts her hand and looks at the burn.

“It’s healing,” he says.

“Not as fast as yours,” she replies.

“But it’s healing,” he says, letting her hand go, “that’s what matters.”

* * *

“You have to hold still.”

“Shut up and let’s put your arm back in place instead!”

Pym sighs and focuses on the misshapen joint. Guinevere swears loudly. They’re running low on booze and ale so she’s doing this without her preferred method of pain relief. A hunting party has gone out but she’s trying not to think about that either. Instead she focuses on Guinevere’s shoulder.

“Stop squirming.”

“I am not squirming!”

“They’re going to hear you yell if you don’t let me do this!”

“I am not going to—“

Pym wrenches the joint back and Guinevere does yell, though it’s her so it’s more a war cry than a scream. But her shoulder is back where it should be. That’s the most important thing. Pym’s learned that once joints are back in place, they don’t hurt nearly as much. Guinevere gives her shoulder an experimental flex and drops it. She doesn’t scream so there’s that. Pym breathes a sigh of relief. It’s been done correctly. She did it correctly.

“Better?” She asks. Guinevere shrugs, “you should rest it.”

“We’re riding tomorrow,” Guinevere says. Pym’s mouth goes dry, it’s an unmistakable command.

“I don’t—“

“You’ll take Nimue’s horse. We need the cart for supplies.”

Pym cringes at Nimue’s name. Guenievre gives her a sharp look and she tries to push the feeling away. If anyone deserved to rest in Avalon, it was Old Boy. But the horse had stayed behind. Pym knows it’s not worth the argument with Guinevere. But the idea of riding him without Nimue makes her—feel isn’t the right word. She still doesn’t feel anything. But something a lot closer to it than she’s been experiencing.

“I haven’t ridden,” she says.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Guinevere says. Pym opens her mouth and she holds up a hand, “I’m not listening to your excuses. Tell them the wall, it has more patience,” she stands up, “are they back yet?”

Pym is left staring at the wall.

She doesn’t want to give it excuses.

But she would like it if the piece of fabric could tell her why it feels like she’s drowning when she hasn’t been near the water in days.

* * *

“Again.”

Squirrel picks up the stick and moves through the motions. It’s tedious, but he needs to learn. Ever since he and Kaze sparred, Lancelot has noted Squirrel is much more agreeable to the tedious groundwork. He finishes the sequence of movements and looks at Lancelot hopefully. Lancelot motions him back to the start.

  
“Again.”

It takes several more times before he finishes and doesn’t look at him. That’s when Lancelot picks up his own stick and motions him back to the starting point. Squirrel looks at him cautiously and adjusts his fingers.

“Again.”

This time when he moves, Lancelot meets his blow with one of his own. The change is instantaneous. Squirrel moves faster and puts force behind the blows. Lancelot matches him easily. When Squirrel steps forward and loses his balance, Lancelot sidesteps him. Squirrel rolls and gets back up to his feet, just managing to block.

“Good,” Lancelot says, “keep your weight back. Don’t let an opponent throw you off balance.”

“Let’s go again!”

* * *

“Will it heal?”

Pym rubs the poultice across Arthur’s palm. She wishes that she had an answer to the question. The vines are burned into his palm, mimicking the leather wraps on the sword. She has no doubt that they were put there by Nimue. She just isn’t sure why yet.

“I think it will get better,” she says, “but it will scar.”

“I don’t mind scars.”

Pym nods and sets about wrapping his hand. The Sword rests in his other as he turns it slowly with his palm. The tip rests on the ground. Pym wishes that she had a better answer for him but things are not so simple. She binds off his hand and he flexes it against the wrapping.

“Thank you,” he says.

  
“Of course,” she replies. He doesn’t get up. Pym senses that he wants to talk, “if you’ll excuse me—“

“It’s not as scary as you think,” Arthur says.

Pym stiffens.

“Letting yourself feel and mourn, it doesn’t have to be the end of the world.”

“The world already ended,” Pym says.

“Not for us,” Arthur says. She tries to swallow and finds it difficult, “there’s a way through this,” he says, “when you’re ready.”

“I’m not,” Pym says.

Arthur settles a hand on her shoulder. Not the scarred one, the other one. Pym tries not to jump at the contact, even though it’s brief and inconsequential. She knows he’s just trying to be kind and helpful but it feels far too close to pain. She wonders if she’s going to be stuck like Lancelot was, craving pain because it’s the only thing that makes you feel. She wonders if he’s still stuck there. She manages a nod.

“Excuse me,” she says again and flees.

**

“I’m not a child,” Tristain snaps up at him.

“You act like one,” Lancelot says cooly and moves the spoon towards her mouth.

Like every mouthful, the need for sustenance wars with her pride. But in the end she’s smart enough to take the food. She doesn’t have freedom with her hands and Lancelot knows very well what she’ll do for something like eating that takes the iron close to her mouth. But that means that she has to be fed.

“You want to live,” he observes.

“Of course I want to live,” she snaps, “I am of more use to Him alive.”

“You delay the hellfire,” he says.

“A small price to pay. My brothers in arms will pray for me.”

“They haven’t come for you.”

It’s the first stab of doubt he’s seen on her face. She doesn’t even try to say that she came alone. That they have no reason to look for her. If no-one has found her these few weeks, they are not looking for her. He sees her shift her shoulders. He wonders if they are alike, if they both ache for the flog. He always knew that if he got taken, he wouldn’t be looked for. Tristain doesn’t seem to have considered that. Lancelot almost pities her.

“I’m needed here,” she says, “if God wills it, I shall return to my brothers.”

“If they’ll have you back.”

She goes paler but then snarls and looks up at him.

“They will when I bring them your head.”

“Maybe,” he says, “or our heads will hang side by side on the Vatican walls since we’re both traitors.”

“I am—“

“You didn’t tell them about the Fire.”

She has no response for that except to turn her face from the next spoonful, breathing hard. The wider swath of her marks makes them catch the light more easily. Even the dim light of the torches makes them glow. Lancelot tries one more time and accepts she’s eaten enough to survive without wasting away.

“You knew keeping our secret was more important,” he says, “they know you’re not blindly loyal.”

“They are still my brothers,” she says.

“The Fey are your brothers,” he says, “that’s why you still have a head.”

“You are not my brothers,” she says.

“We are,” Lancelot says, “by the time you see that, I’ll be able to teach you.”

“I would rather burn,” she spits after him.

She’s not alone in the desire.

* * *

“We make for here,” Guinevere says, “put our backs to the sea. Eydis has burned any ship nearby, they have no way of getting to us.”

“It’s a village,” Pym says.

“The ruins of one,” Lancelot corrects. “I’ve been there.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. Pym doesn’t want to go to a village that’s been burned down, but if it’s a good strategic point then she can’t object. Not just because it doesn’t sound like a pleasant place to be.

“Has it been rebuilt?” Guinevere asks.

“I don’t know,” Lancelot says, “there was a church that should still be standing.”

“Can you secure it?” Lancelot nods.

“Good, as long as we don’t get boxed in it should give us some time to regroup,” she says, “we make for there.”


End file.
